Angelwing
by Whren
Summary: A tragic accident. A new life for highranking San d'Orian paladin Whren, who is besieged by an uncertain future and by a mysterious new menace that threatens the city of Bastok. New Edition in progress now. Updated with Chapter 3!
1. Prologue

ANGELWING

**Prologue**

The buffalo let out an excited, angry snort, and stared straight ahead at the two adventurers standing fixed to the ground in front of itself. The wind howled with rage, whipping up a miniature snowstorm that mirrored the beast's own fury at the audacity of such beings to trespass over its sacred land. Obviously it had not seen the creatures of Altana's creation before, and since they had disturbed its peace they would have to pay dearly.

"How many people do you think we can feed with this, again?" Curilla yelled through the wind.

"Do you really want to find out?"

Whren struggled to hear her friend's words through the fiercely blowing gale, and although she had shouted at the top of her lungs the blinding blizzard had drowned most of her voice out. She also felt exhausted from the strenous two-day long trek through such extreme weather conditions and harsh terrain, through the largely unexplored Uleguerand Range. As it was, they now stood precariously on top of a narrow passageway overlooking a snowy slope a long way down. She shuddered, only partially from the cold.

For now, though, the buffalo was a more pressing matter than the thought of slipping over the edge. It snorted again, and there was fire in its eyes. Whren readjusted her grip on her trusty sword with seasoned practice, and knew that if she did not do something the beast would soon take the initiative.

She lunged out at it with her weapon, slicing as deep as her beloved sword would let her into the creature's hide. It was thick and hard and her sword was built for lightness and speed, not cutting power, and it barely scratched the heavy monster. She groaned inwardly, for this was not looking to be a good start.

Angered, the beast flung its heavily horned head at her, possibly hoping to knock her off balance so she could fall to the ground, but the paladin easily saw the blow coming and brought her shield up to ward most of the damage off. It still made her stumble due to the buffalo's immense weight, but she went unscathed for the most part.

Whren steeled herself, knowing she could fight and win. Her heavy surcoat was muddied and dirtied and she looked worn from scrabbling through thick snow and mud, but on her forehead the holy coronet still gleamed brightly, and she stepped with an inner assuredness and strength that could only come from much experience in battle. Here she was, a master paladin of her time, the respected lady of the kingdom of San d'Oria, one who bore heavy armor through days and weeks and months without breaking much of a sweat, and one who had fought epic battles with the myriad dragons and serpents of Vana'diel. Her eyes narrowed. This beast would not – and could not – outdo her. Hesitating no further, she slipped to the side of the beast and gave her sword a magnificent swing.

This time, it lacerated the buffalo's legs, its dark blue blade slicing through the unprotected flesh at the back of its legs. Whren felt it go deep, and with a growl yanked it free. It returned stained a dark color. Grunting, she quickly stabbed forward again, and the buffalo let out an anguished howl.

"He's got nothing on us," Curilla snorted. Where Whren's movements were fluid and quick, Curilla's slashes carried more weight with them, backed by the heavier blade of her espadon. She moved with the customary elvaan grace known to her kind, as a master of swords and of battle, and as a seasoned leader of San d'Oria's Temple Knights. Despite Curilla's lack of vision in one eye, she was the one who had taught Whren a hard-to-master, impressive movement involving using the momentum of a leap into the air to bore one's blade deep into the enemy. It was one of Whren's favorite moves, largely due to how good the whole thing looked when performed.

"Nope," Whren replied, her jaws still tightly clenched together even though she loosened one shoulder for a nonchalant shrug. "I almost don't understand why it wanted to attack us in the first place."

"Heh."

She fought grimly on, the buffalo quickly getting beaten down and exhausted by the two champion paladins. By now, the beast's bloody nose was snorting and frothing with saliva and blood, but where most people would have quailed at the gruesome sight, both of them had seen far too much blood spilled in their respective careers that they were now largely impervious to the carnage of battle.

Wordlessly Whren swung her sword, so accustomed to fighting was she, so in tune with the different swings and stabs and lunges of her fighting style.

Their nemesis was weakening rapidly, tortured by the stabs of pain wracking its massive frame. Frustrated, its torment quickly reaching boiling point, it started a mournful bellow almost as if clamoring its own looming demise. Whren ignored its death cries, knowing that it would be over soon. Her sword was already lamenting for more blood; she could feel just how eager it was for the kill.

Her gaze locked onto a large wound that Curilla had punched in the creature's side. Instinctively she flicked her wrist and stepped forward, guiding the adaman blade in three strong, swift strokes. The air exploded thickly with colorful energy as the sword emanated the elemental energy hoarded along its length – once, twice, thrice, each hit powerful and deadly.

The bovine howled.

Contorted beyond measurable injury, the beast half-reared in its hurt and fury, its breath misting, and with a horrific roar it charged forward with a labored toss of its head. Its gait was stumbling and awkward, but it was in too much pain to bother and all it wanted was the demise of these persons in blinding white armor. It wanted revenge, for its ebbing life that they had taken.

Whren saw the monstrosity thundering towards her, its eyes half-glazed and burning with a hellish rage, and a surge of panic rose up in her chest in that split-second. Before she could react the buffalo barrelled into her, knocking her rhythm off and sweeping the shield from her left arm. Its massive weight was overpowering, its horns grabbing at her waist and gnawing at her body.

"Ahhhhhhhhh!"

She felt her stomach lurch sickeningly as she realized that it was too late to do anything, before her sabatons slipped on a piece of cliff that promptly dislodged itself. Whren had always been a fighter, but the forces of nature she could not win. Her balance had suffered too badly for her to recover.

The sensation of losing control. Of being thrown out into empty space with nothing to hold on to. The unmerciful cutting rock.

She was slipping, sliding, tumbling down the snow-covered surface, her armor getting battered and her mail screeching and straining loudly in sharp protest as the jagged surface bit and tugged at her. She felt the sting of the blowing wind on her cheek, followed by much more potent stings of pain as the dead branches of a withered plant scraped deep crimson marks into her face. She struggled for a handhold, but there were none for her; the plant came loose from the cliff face immediately, and she grasped at nothing.

"Whren!"

She could barely see, for her fall had sent her rolling and she was being played with by the savage rock, hurled and flung from side to side, her view of the world spinning. For an instant the momentum of her descent flipped her over and Curilla was there, desperately calling to her, wanting to aid but helpless to do so.

_I don't want to die yet! Oh Altana……help me…_

Whren blinked back tears of fright, unable to contain herself. It was all the respite she had, for in the next second the only thing she could fathom or feel was an intense pain she had never felt in all her life slashing and slicing through her right arm and then spreading to the rest of it, coupled with the burning wounds on her cheek.

Mere moments later a blackness began crowding in on her world, drowning out her sight, drowning out the yelling, screaming pain.

-----

"Is she going to be ok?"

The voice tugged at the deep vestiges of Whren's mind, trying to remember and connect voice to person. It was familiar.

_The pain…so strong…won't go away…_

"Can't say yet."

"You've got to do something!"

"Believe me, my good people, I'm trying."

A pause. The blackness was starting to fill her mind again, and she struggled to keep conscious. She could barely, just barely, feel the same tears of fright starting to pool in the corners of her eyes, before she was pulled slowly into a whirlpool of dizzyness and slumber once more.

_Help me…_

"Whren…"


	2. I

ANGELWING

**I**

The lights above her were glaring, bright yellow lights, glowing steadily, never waning. She could feel the warmth on her eyelids, and she blinked. It was of little use, for her vision was blurred and her head groggy. Her body felt like someone had plastered it in dried mud. She could hardly feel much of herself at all, but even through the drowsiness and stupor she could sense that one or two people were moving about the room, and were coming towards her.

"Whren? Are you awake?"

"Ugh," she managed to croak.

A warm, wet towel was passed over her face, and with its slimy touch she began to feel a little more alive. She blinked again. Before she knew it an arm had reached around her shoulders and was trying to help her sit up.

Whren let the arm pull her a little more upright, and was about to bring her right hand up to rub her eyes out of habit, when a dull ache shot up her right arm like a jolt of lightning. Wincing, she bit her lip hard to try and focus on something else, drawing and tasting blood.

"My arm hurts," she managed finally, then added, "The right one."

"Your other shouldn't."

"Doctor Monberaux?" Whren ventured, her memory finally coming to grips with this particular voice.

"You've been through a lot, my lady," the doctor replied, sitting back down on his customary chair beside the bed. "You should be glad you're alive."

Whren tested her left arm and was relieved to find that the doctor was right. It seemed to be functioning normally and she quickly tried moving the rest of herself, if only just to make sure that everything else was still connected to her. Thankfully, it all seemed the same. She hastily tried to clear her vision.

"I'm in Jeuno?" she asked, rubbing her eyes with her left hand.

"That's correct," he answered. "Lady Curilla and some of your San d'Orian knights carried you in bleeding and in pretty bad shape from what I hear was a horrid fall. I spent all day and night trying to get you to come round. Curilla herself needed quite a bit of rest. I don't think I've ever seen her that way before, so whatever the two of you were doing must have been pretty strenuous. She'll be back here soon I imagine; I think she just popped out for a walk."

"What's wrong with my right arm?" Whren asked, feeling it gingerly, and wincing again at how bad it felt. "I can't really move it without feeling a lot of pain."

"Ah, that," Monberaux said, looking thoughtful. "You almost severed your lower arm entirely, and some parts were so torn that I tried my best but couldn't do much to make it better."

Whren was starting to dread where this was going to lead to, but she quelled the thoughts running wild in her head. Things couldn't have been that bad. It had just been a tumble, she was sure. Carefully, she lifted the blanket and looked at her heavily bandaged arm. Aside from the trappings and the splint, it looked like an arm still, much to her relief.

"When will I be able to use it properly again?"

Monberaux looked her in the eye, and smiled. It was only when Whren noticed that there were tears in his eyes that a raw fear began to creep into her, but she shut those thoughts out as quickly as they came. No point being too worried.

"So…when?" she asked again, in a smaller voice. She didn't even notice her own clammy palms clasping the rumpled edge of her blanket.

"The pain will lessen," Monberaux replied, his voice steady and calm. "But your arm will never be as strong as it was before. I doubt you will be able to use it for much, you-"

"I refuse!" Whren snapped, cutting him off. She couldn't believe it. She wouldn't. There was no way it could be. All she felt was fright at that very moment, as if her entire self was being consumed by a monster from within her, swallowing all her other emotions and feelings.

"Now, now-"

"How am I going to live?"

"Lady Whren, you really should calm down."

But a lone tear was already making its way to the bottom of her jaw, and for a moment there was silence in the room. Then, without warning, came a wracking cough and intermittent sobs. The doctor gazed sadly at the woman hunched into the blanket sitting before him.

Whren squeezed her eyes shut, the reality of the situation sinking deeper into her with each breath. It was all just a horrible nightmare. Someone would just pinch her and she would wake up and everything would be over. She lifted a hand to the rest of her face and felt the wet drip of her free-flowing tears.

No more swords. No more shields. All gone. She would be weak now, her status completely ripped from her. No one would look up to a weakling.

Monberaux was experienced enough in his years to know that it was best for him to continue to remain silent, so for a while they sat in an uncomfortable trance that only magnified the severity of the situation.

Finally, lifting a tear-stained face, she asked, "Do Curilla and the other knights know?"

The doctor nodded, and watched Whren sit motionless, a fresh wave of tears quickly beginning to emerge. For a while she fought back the urge to cry again, but before long, she could feel the emotions swell up inside her once more, and she started to choke.

She had no more future as a paladin. The first thing she had lived for. Her whole life had been centred around protecting people. Now she was going to have to be protected and maybe even shunned, for what use was a person who could not bear arms in this day and age of war against the many beastmen and evils of the world?

The door creaked, and Monberaux stood up. Before he could welcome the newcomer in, a familiar deep female voice sounded throughout the infirmary.

"Would that our best warriors be given more just treatment by the gods."

Whren knew who it was without having to turn, and so she remained motionless.

Curilla walked in, and knelt down in front of the bed, her expression tired and weary but hopeful. Without a word, she carefully drew something from her side, and lay it on the edge of the bed, in front of the paladin fallen from her prime.

It was Whren's sword, a rare one she had found in the damp, gloomy ruins of the Sea Serpent Grotto many months ago, the lightest and quickest of all swords known in the world. The blue blade, stronger than the toughest darksteel, had been cleaned of the blood from its last fight, and it now lay gleaming and polished and ready to use in front of its master.

"You could always learn how to use it with your other hand," Curilla prompted, her voice encouraging. She placed a hand on the hume woman's back and gave Whren a good-natured shake.

Whren wondered if that was even possible. After so long spent training and practising with her right hand, she wasn't all too sure that the elvaan woman's idea would work – and to compound matters, she wouldn't be able to use a shield, which would mean the loss of much of her defensive capabilities. No, this just was not possible.

"I… don't think I can."

Curilla was silent, but her eyes were firmly fixed on Whren's worn countenance, searching and reading the emotions criss-crossing the hume woman's face.

"Why?" was all the elvaan asked, a tinge of an edge in her voice.

She received no reply, save for Whren lowering her head even further. Monbereaux shuffled uneasily in his seat, making sure to stay as uninvolved as possible. Curilla let out an exasperated sigh at the permeating silence, and tossed her head in annoyance, her solitary eye rolling in disdain.

"So, you're just going to give up like this? What about the memories we had? The times we spent duelling each other? What I taught you? And what about Fai, do you really think he's going to like you giving up like this just because of this new setback?"

Curilla's voice was by now high-strung and impatient, deep in tenor, and more than anything, frustrated. Under the bedsheets Whren moved her legs ever so slightly, and then she turned away again.

"Fai…" she muttered, her voice a mixture of emotions. "Curilla, I don't think you understand. I can't be a paladin anymore because…because I know I'm going to be bad at it."

The elvaan stared at her.

"And… I can't bear the thought of that…"

Oh, the shame she would feel, when she missed her slashes and failed to parry in time. After so many years spent at the helm of most of the knights in San d'Oria, Whren couldn't see herself buckling down to make mistakes even recruits did. How could she ever walk with her head high, when she could carry no shield and only had the use of an unfamiliar hand?

"Do you know what you're saying, Whren?" Curilla asked, almost dangerously. Her eye had narrowed to a sinister slit. "Or have you really forgotten the San d'Orian ways?"

Whren bit her lip this time. It was customary of all San d'Orians, especially knights, to hold on dearly to their pride and status particularly in the face of dire circumstances; even a civilian would fight tooth and claw for the space to hold their head high, and here she was, about to willingly drop her rank. But the fear was there, a very potent and real fear, the gnawing dread that she would be called on to demonstrate a move to the new knights and end up getting laughed at for her disability. The knights would jeer. Even Zovriace, the wretched underling who had been bound to the tiresome duty of patroling Ronfaure.

They would laugh at her, laugh at how she would fumble her sword, wield it clumsily, not give it the treatment such a worthy blade deserved. It was not customary for the elvaans to give in to sympathy; if there was something they could mock they most probably would, and she had seen enough of it to be afraid of being at the other end for once.

_Weakling! Weakling! Go away until you can wield a sword properly again – here, take this bronze sword instead of your expensive rapier –_

Whren squeezed her eyes shut, willing the chilling images to go away. The voices in her head were horribly taunting, the jeers of the many elvaan knights she saw every day eerily real.

"I…I'm afraid, Curilla…" And this time there was that fear in her voice, pure and unmasked.

The Temple Knight either did not read the tone of her voice, or chose to ignore it. With an earthly growl a heavy hand came down hard, and in one swift motion ripped Whren's sword off the bed, searing several slits into the pristine sheets as the blade flared upwards. In a split-second, the deadly tip of the weapon lay pointing square at Whren's exposed throat.

"Curilla!" Monbereaux exclaimed, coming to life and leaping to his feet at the sudden threat. "I have no problems with you talking things out with my charge, but I will not have this sort of dangerous disruption in my infirmary!"

"Tell this wretched woman she doesn't deserve the respect due to one of our own, then," the general asserted, her poise hardly flinching.

"I understand your aggravation, but I will have to ask you to settle your differences elsewhere," the doctor scoffed. "I have other patients here too and I do not think they would appreciate your clanging and banging."

Whren sat absolutely still where she was, the cold tip of her own sword but a few hairs from her neck. It was a strange feeling being the one assaulted by the weapon instead of the one doing the assaulting, but if this was what her future life was to be like, she might as well start learning how to deal with getting knocked down and pointed at now. So she held herself unmoving, her spirit as much broken as it was afraid, and did not even bother trying to lock eyes with Curilla's steel gaze.

"Do what you want to me," she muttered to the other paladin. "I am not worth your time anymore."

Whren closed her eyes, but did not feel pain as she was half-expecting to. Instead she felt a cold _whiff_, and then there was none of the sword's near presence, and shortly she heard an angry, familiar clang as her trusted rapier hit the floor. Curilla must have flung it down and left, disgusted.

Monbereaux stood for a moment, his chest heaving at his own outburst. Then his doctorly instincts took over and he stepped towards the bed, wanting to settle Whren back down. However, she had no intentions of giving him that chance and quickly slipped her feet off the side of the bed before he could reach her. The floor was cold and felt strange without her sabatons.

"Lady Whren, you are not ready to—"

Whren did not answer; there were no words that found themselves in her mouth. Fumbling with the thin white cloak she had been dressed in, she pulled the fabric closer around herself, for the air felt chilly outside. She was painfully conscious of the way her right arm hung limp like a broken appendage beside her, and she forced herself not to look at it, or try again to move it. It made her shudder just thinking about it.

Monberaux watched, stunned, as Whren slowly knelt and with her left arm, grasped feebly at the hilt of the rapier lying on the immaculate floor, eventually succeeding in bringing it closer to her. It was a wrenching sight as she stumbled to her feet, dizzy with weakness, and staggered alone out the door, the tip of the beautiful sword screeching on the ground behind her as she dragged it away step by painful step.


	3. II

ANGELWING

**II**

Whren had always loved the city of Jeuno. When she first arrived on one of her expeditions countless moons ago as a trainee soldier, she had taken one look at the artfully carved arches and the perfect harmony of brick red and white stone, and had fallen in love with the place. Since then, she had gone on countless missions for the Archduke, and because of that, had discovered unspeakable secrets about the inner workings of Jeuno that she had been sworn never to tell to the denizens of this splendid, enigmatic city. This was a place of much memory for her.

Today she limped out of the infirmary, to be greeted by the familiar stone walls watching protectively over the residents of the city. The sky was overcast, milling with grey streams and swirls as thunder rumbled softly through the heavens. It felt prophetic, almost. Whren blinked away some fresh tears and took a deep breath, heaving in the crisp Jeunoan air that she relished. It was an unusually quiet day in Upper Jeuno; normally there would be swarms of people gathered at the auctioneers right outside the infirmary (Monberaux had vented to her several times about his frustrations over the residual noise that sometimes disturbed his sensitive patients). Today only a handful of well-dressed merchants browsed the great wares.

_Why did this have to happen to me?_ Whren screamed to herself. _What did I do wrong to deserve this? Why me?_

"Why…." She said aloud, and an adventurer who had been whittling at the price of a scorpion harness glanced behind him at her. She turned a slight shade of crimson, noting her sick clothes, limp arm, and a dangerous-looking sword in one hand, and began pacing several steps in an attempt to look busy. The first thing that came to mind was how far of a cry this was from her noble paladin's mail and surcoat, and how most people had used to watch her in awe and respect.

Finally she stopped and leaned against the corner of the infirmary building, out of sight of most of the auction people. Sighing, she looked down at her sword sitting dead in her hand. Slowly she grasped the hilt, and started to lift it. As expected, it felt strange in her left hand, like a foreign object instead of an extension of her arm and body.

_Like a piece of wood,_ she thought bitterly. She had worked so hard to get to where she had been, and now everything was gone. By the grace of Altana, she would need help even getting into her armor! There was no way she was going to allow herself such a weakness.

And yet… what else did she have? If she retrained she would be doomed to forever be reliant on other soldiers and knights to even get her started on the battlefield, a disgrace so heavy and strong she recoiled at it. But if she did not she would be leaving behind everything forever, the one job she had come to identify and recognize herself as. Who ever heard of the name Whren and did not associate 'paladin' with it?

The weight of uncertainty loomed upon her, and she could feel herself buckling under it. She felt alone, more alone than she had ever been, now that she knew she would no longer wholly have the support of the San d'Orian knights who had once revered her. Moaning in anguish, she leaned her head against the rough brick edge, rocking herself in sorrow.

Suddenly there came a short tap on her shoulder, and Whren jumped and spun around as best as she could given her ailed condition. She half-expected some seedy man to be behind her, trying to get her to help him with a quest or some such other matter, but instead she came face to the white and grey patterns embossed onto the front of the traditional paladin's surcoat, stretched solidly over someone's chest.

"I heard about what happened," came a smooth, deep voice. Whren looked upwards, and recognized the same defined face, with its characteristic high-and-mighty gaze, and the two long ears.

"Fai…" she stuttered. Faianeux, another San d'Orian paladin, had been her colleague through many missions she had been on, and was famed for his 'proper elvaan ways', which often meant looking down the length of his nose at other people. Still, after they had both completed several arduous tasks together, most of which benefited the kingdom, it had been deemed by most of San d'Oria that they were to be wedded, and so it was more out of circumstance than anything else that they ended up engaged.

Even now he stood stoic and unmoving, his gaze steely and his eyes lowered to look at Whren far below him. She was inclined to lunge into his arms, but she knew it would not be _proper_. So she stood her ground instead, and strained to look up at his towering height.

"You know, Whren," Fai said, crossing his arms, "I really think you should listen to Curilla. What ARE you? Some Bastokan? You're a paladin, Whren. Holy knight of San d'Oria, keeper of the light and the divine, a sacred warrior. You're one of the kingdom's best knights, and here you are thinking about leaving everything behind because of a scrape on your arm." He gave a _tccch_ sound and peered down at her.

Whren seethed deep within her. She didn't exactly feel in the right state of physical health to be angry, but she knew of her own arrogance and inner fire – which she always assumed was why she got on so well with the elvaans – and this made her blood boil.

"What do you know about falling off a cliff, my good sir?" she bit back, her tongue caustic. "Scrape on my arm? I'm surprised I'm even _alive_ right now, aren't you even the least bit concerned about how I am?" She knew her voice was getting slightly shrill in the way she hated it to be, but she didn't care.

Fai snorted.

"All I know is that I know a paladin, and a hume who isn't actually a weed like the rest of them." He turned away, his eyes scornful. "What happened to all that talk about paladin spirit, and nobility, and all that that you used to live your live by? You used to march through the Chateau like no other; you were better than any swordswoman out there. I respected you. And I…" this time he spat out the words. "I do not want a weak lady."

_Weak lady…_

The words echoed like bullets in Whren's head and pacified her anger, only to drown and replace the angry flames with a kind of piercing stab she never felt before. This hurt was nothing like sword wounds, or slashes, or anything that drew blood. It wasn't so much betrayal, or even the lack of support she was getting from him – goddess knew she had had to support herself spiritually and emotionally in times of bloodshed – it was the fact that he was bringing her worst fear to life and giving it a voice, and to make things harder, it was the voice of the man she was supposed to be married to in a month.

She decided to try another tactic. Giving in, acquiescing to him. Maybe then he wouldn't frighten her so much.

"Alright, Fai, I have to think about this, okay? I… I just can't decide right now, I need some time for everything to sink in and settle."

"Think? What is there to think about?" His voice boomed loudly throughout the little square in the heart of the city, causing several passerbys to stop and stare. Whren hated their questioning gazes and hid her eyes as best as she could manage. Oh, what the world would think if ­_she_ were to be made to look weak under public gaze.

"There is nothing to think about, Whren," Fai pressed on. "You're either a paladin, and learn how to use that sword again, or you're not, and you give up and go somewhere to be a hermit. I don't see what's so difficult about this damned decision; you're just being stubborn."

"No, I…" Whren tried to say. She felt desperate, caged, locked and squeezed into a tight corner with nowhere to run. And yet, despite the harsh words he was dealing her, part of her knew in the back of her head that he was partially right. It was a painful truth, and he being the one to spell it out to her was only worsening it.

"I've said it before, Whren. The king has deemed it so. The princes have. Every single knight in the kingdom knows that their stature is of utmost importance, and nobility cannot be compromised! You know this!" His voice had reached a high pitch as well, and Whren knew he must be getting agitated and angry as well. She knew he expected to see her old fighting strength, that was up for bickering and challenge, but her heart felt weary and raw with wound. She didn't feel like lifting her head to argue again, so all she did was revert her eyes downwards and stare at the smooth pavement.

"Huh." Fai turned away to leave, now that she had assumed a purely passive stance.

Whren watched as his armor clanked ominously on the ground. Step by large step he drew away from her, and something urged in her heart to be spoken. She kept it down, merely watching in silence as he strode away, but just as he was almost out of earshot she knew she could not win the welling of the emotions in her heart. The battle was over. The knights would hate her for breaching her own honor by doing this.

"I'm frightened, Fai!" she yelled after him, throwing her sword on the ground hard. It clanged twice, in tune with the heavy pounding of her heart. "I'm scared! I'm so incredibly scared of what I'll become if I go back to training! I'll never be the same paladin that everyone knows and expects! I'm scared! Did you ever think of that?"

The elvaan stopped, but did not turn around. Instead he tilted his head over his shoulder, looking in her direction but not at her. His eyes were a steel blue, his mouth set in a hard, straight line. There was no emotion on his sculpted face, no matter how charismatic it looked.

"I despise cowards."

And he was gone.

A lash of lightning split the clouds in a terrifying display of purple, indigo and cold, dark grey, and it wasn't long before peals of thunder came crashing through the skies like celestial chariots riding war mounts into battle. Whren bit herself back for a while, but it proved to be futile as her vision blurred, her ears rang with the commotion of both sky and crowd, and she felt whatever remained of her fury and fire submit to cold terror that washed over her. The embers would not even smoke now.

The rain began to fall, softly, poetically, the light drops matching the same tears that were starting to roll down Whren's rough cheek again. Within several minutes the rain had increased in pitch, pouring down, soaking her frame and short brown hair, splattering off the blue rapier beside her.

Slowly she sank to her knees, to the ground, the ultimate display of subservience to what Altana had wrought on her. This was the ultimate confirmation of her direction now. No paladin would ever perform such an act of disgrace; that she had done it was an unspoken statement, not just to herself, but also to the crowd beginning to gather around her inquisitively. Whren could care less now. She lifted her face to the looming skies, and opened two eyes that were now pools of sadness.

A mournful wail sounded through the streets of Upper Jeuno, the walls bearing full witness to this prostration to the silent goddess. It was a painful cry, almost song-like, as a small hume woman sat and proclaimed the death of her knight's soul on the altar. A death by fear.

Nearby, Curilla choked back a sob and quickly stuffed it down her throat. She began to stride away, knowing the decision Whren had made. Her gait was strong as usual, but as she turned the corner there was a tiny glimpse of wetness at the corners of her eyes.


	4. III

ANGELWING

**III**

"Thank you kindly, healer," the old elvaan woman warbled. Her wrinkled face creased in a joyful smile as she took Whren's mitts and shook them gently using both of her own shrunken hands. Beside her a silent young warrior stood quietly, nursing the rawness of the gashes she had just closed.

"Don't mention it," Whren replied, smiling a little at how happy the elder had become. "Just doing what I had to do. I have a lot to learn in this field, anyhow."

She waved several farewells to the old woman and her grandson as they hobbled from the cathedral, more out of politeness and courtesy than anything else. Once they were out of sight, she took a deep breath and began packing and organizing the things around her. It was evening, and time to go home for some much-needed rest. Beside her the priests and followers of Altana milled without paying too much attention to her; there was one last evening sermon and then the cathedral would be quiet for the night again, only to resume its calm bustle in the early hours of morning.

Whren arranged a stack of scrolls neatly on the bookshelf and dusted her hands off. As she gave a small nod of satisfaction, she sensed someone coming up behind her.

"Priest Arnau?"

The tall, blue-garbed elvaan nodded, and did a customary bow.

"You've been working hard, it looks like," he commented.

Whren found herself nodding and not being able to say much else, so she just stood up and waited in silence for her senior to say more. At first he was motionless and stern, his brow creased into a straight line, and Whren, expecting to have done something wrong, was getting herself ready to atone for whatever crime she had committed when suddenly a small twinkle shimmered over his eyes.

"Huh?"

Arnau gave a small chuckle.

"It seems many of our kingdom's people have begun to notice the hard work of San d'Oria's newly anointed healer," he explained. "I have received much word from many of the citizens here, in both person and writing, that we have a polite young lady in our midst who has been treating their little ailments and wounds with _ever so much_ courtesy."

"I..I've just been doing what I can," Whren whispered in a tremulous voice. She averted her eyes downwards, feeling the inner stirrings of stale emotions again.

The corners of the elvaan's mouth upturned slightly in a kind smile, but she did not see it.

"Belittle yourself not, lady," he coaxed. "You've pulled your weight in this place and shown what you can do. Narcheral himself has even given you that tunic you now wear."

Whren allowed herself just a glimpse of the article in question, a somewhat plebian but artfully crafted briault hanging from her frame, that yelled loudly with its bright red triangle pattern on the sleeves and gold designs on the front. She felt a sudden twinge at hearing her recent 'achievements' being extolled the way Arnau was doing it, when in truth she did not feel even a little accomplished.

After returning to San d'Oria, she had walked through the streets, bedraggled, under the gaze of her former comrades who still bore their armor and swords and shields proudly, and had openly resigned herself to working in the cathedral with the calm, stoic priests. She had expected a far greater uproar, especially from Curilla, but the elvaan lady had been quiet and was scarcely anywhere to be found recently. And it hurt.

Whren would have rather felt her mentor's anger beating on her mercilessly, than this mild acceptance of her fate as a fresh healer in the polished, sacred halls of the cathedral. At least then she would have had something to fight, and struggle against, and argue for. Now something else pierced Whren's heart and soul, something that seemed to have entered her body and poisoned her mind so that her whole spirit and being felt heavy with the burden with each waking moment of the days that had passed.

Disappointment. She had let Curilla and all the other knights down, on account of only her cowardice and nothing else. There was no one else, no other thing or person to blame, but her own fear of failure and the fact that she could not stand not being at the number one position. She knew she had been spoilt by her former prestige as a very high-ranking paladin, but she was as clueless as to how to change as a worm was of growing legs. She _knew_ she should have at least tried to use her left arm with a sword, but there was that mental roadblock, that cowardice, that failed her every single time. Some paladin she was.

And now she was a healer, a mage, someone who had no right or ability to wear the heavy plated armors of her previous profession. People who stayed away from the frontlines and dedicated themselves to healing – the weak people. It felt as if she had driven herself into this corner because of her refusal to adapt to using her left hand, and had come here as this was the next easiest route. After all, casting white magic did not require the use of any arms and was easy on her disabled arm, and her trembling, unsure person.

Arnau was now smiling even more widely at her. It was then that she realized she was probably supposed to respond in kind, so she pasted a smile on her face with as much politeness as she could muster.

"Make sure to keep up the good work," he remarked, and then bowed and took his leave.

Several moments later, she had finished cleaning up whatever she had been assigned to do, and was now outside in the soft vermillion glow of the evening. Whren took a deep breath and savored the fresh, frosty air, glad to be outside and free of the spartan staleness that hung throughout the cathedral. Ahead of her, Northern San d'Oria looked as beautiful as it always did, with its towering spires, grass-lined pavements and high, protective walls. There was an elegant calmness that she felt being out here in the heart of her kingdom, something about the graceful architecture and the dusk chatter of the citizens as several people milled around the parade square before dinner. As much as some things had changed, this hadn't, and she was grateful for the feeling of familiarity.

Whren felt marginally happier. Her spirits lifted as she let her eye travel its course over the sun-brimmed tops of the roofs, the stately lampposts, the artful fountain in the center of the parade square. The richly colored banners hanging proudly over the heavy doors of the embassies, the carved stone… and there she stopped.

Victory Arch.

She felt a small prickling at the corners of her eyes, and blinked, only to find confused tears under her eyelids.

"Why am I even crying?" she whispered to herself, her breath misting slightly in the increasingly colder night air. An elvaan, on his way further north to Laborman's Way, paused midstride to look at her curiously, and started on again. This had the effect of making Whren feel incredibly self-conscious, and she turned away, her face flushing timidly.

_I thought I was past all these tears,_ she thought, loathe to speak out loud any further. _I used to walk through there with everyone else…whenever we'd come back from an expedition or something. Oh, what's the use? It's all over now._

The heavy memories were too potent and Whren too wrapped up in them, that she had paid no notice to the few people walking across the parade square when out of the corner of her eye, one particular person appeared to be walking straight towards her. Startled, she quickly refocused herself and strained to see who it was in the dim dusk light.

"Good evening," the smooth voice said, cold and detached as always. The edge of his shield glimmered like a diamond.

"Fai…" Whren heaved a sigh of relief. "I couldn't see that it was you." She thought she heard him give one of his snorts.

"I'll cut to the point," he said after a quick pause. "King Destin wishes you to attend him in the Chateau. He mentioned something about a Bastokan emissary being here, and wants you to be there on account of how long you've been serving the kingdom."

The news struck Whren as fairly surprising, for she had not been called upon to do much work ever since she had announced her leave from the order. Still, she composed herself as best as she could, aware that Fai's eyes were on her. She did not want him to see her being _weak_ any further.

"I see. I shall take leave for this duty, then," she muttered, the honored words embellishing her with some purpose as they left her lips. It was something else to put all of her mind on, something to distract her from the pangs of regret and lost dignity.

As she strode past him, however, Fai turned slightly and cocked his head in small disdain, a movement Whren tried not to notice. She forced her head up high and her eyes forward, yet it seemed as though he was making every effort to ensure that she could feel his contempt.

"Talk about reducing oneself to garbage magery," he sighed. "You know, that sort of people who can't bear swords, and instead have to be _left behind_ to tend to the sick and the children. That sort of people." And then, as part of his display, he swung his sword around in a twirl and laid it to rest on his shoulder, his movements seasoned and fluid, all the while aware that Whren was watching him.

Try as she might, she could not help but feel the hot anger boiling up inside her again. She was in no position to work off that anger in a duel, as she might have previously done whenever she got mad, and she was far beyond having to resort to name-calling and the use of coarse language – she had not been brought up that way and it was something she couldn't seem to do – so the only thing that came to her mind was to glare back at him, a glare as cold and steely as she could manage.

"I have something to see to," she retorted. There was an edge to her voice that reminded even herself of how she used to speak at times when she had been a trophy paladin.

"Oh," Fai replied icily, and started to walk briskly ahead of her. "I believe King Destin invited me as well."

-----

The heavy oak doors groaned and strained as strong gauntleted hands pushed them open with much ceremony. The elvaan guard bowed reverently to the dignitaries within the richly decorated room, and retreated several paces back into the Grand Hall.

"… And here are my other subjects." King Destin announced. The Bastokan emissary that was knelt before the stately San d'Orian ruler looked behind him and lifted his eyes briefly to catch those of Fai and Whren. He was dressed like a Bastokan; not so much of the flamboyance and rigor of the elvaan, but in more functional, everyday clothes. Looking at him, Whren figured he was middle-aged, although the lines creasing his face suggested that he was subject to much toil in the Bastokan offices. Neat brown hair, smartly combed and styled, barely peeked from under a small hat.

From her post on the right side of the king's throne, Curilla flinched but slightly. Whren caught the motion quickly, and their eyes locked for a split second before Curilla looked away again and stiffened once more.

Fai stepped forward and dropped to his knees extravagantly beside the emissary. Whren did the same, as was customary for anyone brought into the presence of the king.

"Now then, Emissary Radin, you may speak. You said something about Bastok experiencing some difficulties."

The Bastokan cleared his throat and began his explanation.

"Yes, your majesty. A serial murderer has surfaced in the Republic recently. From our reports on this particular person, whoever it is is extremely skilled, and kills at will. We have had zero success in bringing it down."

"Isn't that an internal problem?" King Destin asked. There was a hint of mirth in his voice.

"I would rather it be an internal problem than something my nation has to bother yours for," Radin replied courteously. "But you see... this killer only targets San d'Orians."

The news seemed to hit everyone in the room like a bullet, and Whren herself felt the shock like something slamming into her gut. Beside her, Whren could hear the guards exclaim violently with stunned gasps of horror. Even Fai seemed to recoil slightly at the notion, and King Destin's eyes were stricken underneath his outward composure.

"O-only San d'Orians?" Curilla exclaimed.

"I am afraid so. The crime scenes have all shown hints that the murderer is extremely proficient, cunning, and dare I say… stealthy. Furthermore, it appears that this person doesn't just target the elvaan, but anyone who is from this kingdom regardless of race."

"But what sort of grudge could there be for it to kill only San d'Orians? We have co-existed perfectly well ever since the inception of the Conquest system!" Fai roared. Whren narrowed her eyes at his outburst. "Such malice Bastok carries!"

"My good sir, you do realize that the Republic does not condone such heinous crimes as well, don't you?" Radin said. "_We_ ourselves do not wish to interrupt the myriad trade activities that we have with San d'Oria – as it is right now, we have been trying to evacuate as many San d'Orian nationals as we can to a safehouse that is enclosed and guarded with Mythril Musketeers, for the time being. However, there are still many unguarded San d'Orians left in the city who we have little way of reaching unless they come up and surrender themselves as San d'Orians. There too lies the problem of eradicating the threat itself, because the Republic certainly does not want this stalemate to go on forever."

King Destin sat back in his seat and brought a gnarled hand to his bearded mouth. His brow was furrowed heavily.

"I will request that Bastok deports all known San d'Orians back here," he said at last. "And continue to seek out the remaining San d'Orians and do the same for them. Entry into Bastok from the airship and gates should be disallowed for those of our nationality, to prevent further killings from happening."

"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but I'm afraid that my nation has too much on its hands right now to screen every single traveler that passes through our gates. We have other matters to tend to as well, and doing such a thing will severely hamper our trade with other nations. However, I believe deportation can be done quite easily."

Before Destin could speak out against the refusal, Fai had already raised his voice.

"Your Majesty, the next best option would be to eliminate the threat as soon as possible, if Bastok will not help."

"All the Republic can afford at the moment are several Mythril Musketeers for the safehouse," Radin affirmed. "We are dealing with matters of our own, and President Karst believes that this problem was caused by San d'Orians and so should be settled by San d'Orians."

The conversation swirled around Whren; she was aware of the commotion, but something else had lodged itself in her mind. Mildly dazed, she looked up at everyone – Curilla, Fai, King Destin, all of who were obviously distressed and engaged in heavy discussion as to what to do.

"I let everyone down before," she whispered very softly. "Even myself. I wanna do something. I wanna do something to regain my honor. I need to do something."

The words _garbage magery_ seemed to echo in her mind, the way Fai had said it, the way it made her feel even more regret for turning away from knighthood. Even before the idea struck her, she knew what it was, and her heart began to pound crazily at the thought.

"I'll do it!" Whren shouted, and then as four pairs of eyes turned towards her and their chatter died down, she began to feel herself blush under their questioning gazes. "I…I'll do it, Your Majesty. I'll make the trip to Bastok and get rid of the criminal."

Fai scoffed.

"You?" He asked it in an incredulous way, as if it was some massive undertaking. Whren thought it might just have been him – and felt that perhaps he might be justified this once – but when Curilla began sighing and shaking her head as well, her heart began to sink back into her duckbills. They didn't trust her after all. It was too crazy an idea; she wondered how she had thought she could entertain it in the first place.

"You can't go…"

_Yeah… I won't ever be able to do anything anymore._ Whren bit her lip.

"Now, now, both of you."

Surprised, Whren swung her eyes upwards, and saw that King Destin was looking straight at her. She swallowed, unsure what he had in mind. His eyes were kind and he was looking at her expectantly. Surely not?

"Perhaps you would like to take this opportunity to further serve your kingdom, Lady Whren," he suggested, his eyes creasing in a slight smile. "Maybe you could use this opportunity to find yourself once again."

"But, Your Majesty! She is a mere-"

"Enough, Fai," the king said, and the elvaan sank back onto his heels at the words of his liege. "We have entrusted Whren with many things in the past. I don't see how it should be any different once more, now that she has decided she wishes to put her heart into this. Whren."

"Yes, my lord." She trembled. She had to do this; the thudding in her chest was stronger than ever.

"I know you no longer bear any arms," he said, and his eyes locked onto her uncertain ones. "But I have trusted you time and time again. I believe you'll find a way out of this problem, for the good of our kingdom. Perhaps a stout heart may conquer what the blade may not."


End file.
